


Muddied Water

by seltzerboy



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Love, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 06:46:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16383320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seltzerboy/pseuds/seltzerboy
Summary: John comes home from university after being away for a while.  Paul feels things, and George is sexually frustrated.  But what else is new?





	Muddied Water

_Just a few more hours. Just a few more hours till I can get out of here. Just a few more hours till I can see my Johnny._

Paul repeated this mantra over and over in his mind as he stared at the clock hanging above his English Literature classroom door. It seemed as if this day was dragging on forever, and he’d never get to that final dismissal bell. 

You see, this was a very special day for Paul. Because this was the day that John came home after nearly a year of being away at university in Wimbledon. Some hot-shot art school that Paul didn’t know very much about, other than the fact that it was a five hour train ride away, and that was assuming he could ever afford it. Being a 16 year old kid meant he didn’t have that much dough coming in on a regular basis, so he had only ever made the trip once, just about a month after John had left. It had been nice, a real sound time. But that was nearly ten months ago now. Ten months of writing endless letters, usually about nothing but missing each other, and cursing the fact that they were born two years apart. Ten months of long distance phone calls whenever they could manage, and being forced to speak in a sort of code, as John had a party line in his flat, and they were never sure when someone could have been listening. The only time the boys had been able to speak properly was on Paul’s birthday, when John had called from a pay phone, just so he could talk to him, and actually _talk_ about how he was missing him. He’d sent Paul a gift, a small book of poems he’d written for the younger lad, along with some new guitar picks, with a note telling him to wait to open it until he’d called. Paul had waited, and when John had heard his genuine giggle of happiness, he’d nearly had to sit down in the phone booth. 

Paul swore he’d be there in Wimbledon if he could have been, doing whatever it was John did, right along side him. But alas, he was stuck in his own school, and it seemed, at least to him, that he would never get out of Liverpool. 

But none of that mattered anymore, because in just a few short hours time, John would be there. Paul just had to make it to the end of the day. And the more he thought, and the more he day dreamed about what it would be like to actually have John there with him, to feel him once more in his arms, the faster the minutes seemed to fly by. And before he knew it, he was running out the front doors of The Liverpool Institute, pushing his way past his classmates to get out onto the sidewalk and onto the bus. Once seated, in a very hard and very uncomfortable seat, his leg bouncing up and down restlessly, he sent out a silent prayer to God, begging for this bus ride to be quick. 

Looking towards the front of the bus, he noticed George Harrison, a boy one year his junior, coming down the aisle toward him, scanning the rows of seats in hopes of finding an empty. He spotted one right next to Paul and hurried over, cramming his small body into the space and holding his nap sack on his lap. Paul’s leg continued to bounce, and he gave George a friendly obligatory smile before turning to look out the window, willing the driver to get the bus going. Just when it began to pull out into traffic, he felt a poke against his arm. He turned around to face the perpetrator. 

“What d’ya want, Geo?” He hadn’t meant to sound as annoyed as he did, but he figured he might as well own it. 

“Ye got a bird on your mind or somethin’, do ye?” 

Paul nodded curtly, but smiled nonetheless. George was an alright lad, and Paul realized he was too excited to stay annoyed for long. 

“Somethin’ like that, yeah.” 

“Oy, what’s her name? She got a friend for yer old pal George?” Paul just rolled his eyes, giving the younger lads leg a shove. 

“She’s not from around here, lives at university in Edinburgh. Only just been allowed to come visit now, ye see?” He was pleased with how quickly he could come up with a story on the spot, and he could tell George was buying it because of the impressed look on his face. 

“She fit then?” Paul honest to God thought George looked like a kid whose just been told about Saint Crimble for the first time. But he decided he’d humor him. 

“Well of course, lad! Bout as fit as Bardot, or dare I see even better. Got the nicest pair o’ legs I’ve ever seen, I tell ye.” George’s mouth was actually starting to hang open like it’d been unhinged, and Paul let out a laugh at his friends seemingly involuntary response at the mention of Brigitte Bardot. He glanced out the window once again to find that he was nearly at his stop. _About fucking time!_ He gave George a pat on the chest as he stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. The bus pulled off to the side of the road, and he made his way down the aisle and onto the sidewalk, only looking back once to see George’s face still stuck in a open-mouthed boggle. He chucked to himself as the bus’s door squeaked closed, the tires crunching as it pulled back into traffic, leaving him alone on the pavement. 

Only then did he remember the momentous occasion that he’d been distracted from by his sexually frustrated friend. _John’s coming home!_ And all of a sudden he was off once more, racing down the pavement with all the haste in the world, zooming by mother’s pushing small children in strollers and dodging the bin men collecting rubbish. He made it home in record time, flinging open the front gate and bolting over to the door. He let out an agonized groan as he fished through his trouser pockets for his key, only to find it was, in fact, stuffed in the bottom of his school bag. He finally got the door open and ran straight to his bedroom, throwing his bag down onto his bed and reaching for the phone on his night stand. He had Mimis number dialed in seconds, and he sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his free hand, panting heavily into the receiver, when suddenly he heard the click, indicating someone had picked up. 

“Hello! Miss Mimi? Is John there?!” 

“Oh, hello, may I ask who’s calling?” 

“It’s Paul,” he had to pause to catch his breath once more before continuing, “Paul McCartney. Is John there?” 

There was a pause on the other end, and what sounded like a male voice in the background. Paul’s heart fluttered. He’d recognize that voice anywhere. Then, muffled, “yes, it’s Paul, dear, _oh!_ ” Paul grinned as he imagined John booking it towards the door, because he’d be ready to do the same. 

“It seems he’s only just left, and just after getting home, too. Sorry about that, dear,” Mimi consoled, and Paul had to keep from laughing out loud. He tried to play along, though, for the sake of courtesy. 

“Oh, drat, what rotten luck I’ve got. Well, that’s alright, I’ll just catch him next time. Ta, Miss Mimi.” 

“Anytime, love.”

The line went dead and Paul placed the phone back on the hook, buzzing with anticipation of Johns arrival. He’d be here in just a few minutes, no doubt. And since Mike and his Dad were out to town, it meant they could actually _be alone._ Paul smiled, standing up from his bed and doing a small spin on the way to the door, wanting to make sure he’d hear the bell when John reached his. 

Not even six minutes later, he was springing up from the sofa in the living room, alerted by the buzzer that all of his troubles and anxieties were finally over. John was here. He pulled the blasted chain off the wall with a bit of difficulty, and with one final strain of effort, flung the door open with a flourish. 

Paul’s mouth dropped. He thought, bizarrely enough, that he’d finally understood what George had gone through earlier. Stood in front of him currently was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. His brown hair was thick as thieves, curling over his forehead in an almost welcoming way. His strong jaw flowing into his wide shoulders, covered by a thick red sweater. His _smile._ The most genuine smile Paul thought he’d ever see. And those eyes, like puddles of muddied water glistening in the sun after a rain shower, totally humanitarian yet completely misanthropic. _Those frames are new,_ Paul thought, regarding Johns circular glasses. And suddenly the distance between them, which had waned, like the phases of the moon, so slowly yet so suddenly; from nearly four-hundred kilometers to now a few mere meters, was far too much to bear. 

“ _C’mere_ ,” John sighed, and then he was here. Paul felt himself melt against the older boy, both physically and emotionally, with no regard for anything other than the feeling of Johns arms holding him up, and knowing that without a shadow of a doubt John would support him. He let out a strained noise, something between a whine and a sob, and he felt his face growing wet with tears he hadn’t even realized had been falling. He let his fists grab at the material of Johns sweater, holding on so tight his knuckles turned white. 

“ _Oh baby_ ,” John brought one hand up to cradle the back of Paul’s head, holding him against his chest so delicately, as if he were made of porcelain. “ _I’ve got you, I’ve got you love, it’s okay baby_.” He pressed his nose to Paul’s hair and inhaled, taking in the scent of his love once again after such a long time. He felt a few tears prickling his own eyes as well, and he let them fall, not daring to remove his arms from around Paul. The pair stayed in their embrace for quite a long time, swaying gently back and forth, the front door still ajar. They were just inside the threshold, and John slowly manoeuvred them so he could kick the door shut with his foot, effectively shutting them away from the outside world. He let out a deep sigh of relieve, feeling the weight of the past year falling off his shoulders more rapidly the longer he held his boy. 

Eventually he gave Paul’s body one final squeeze, before pulling away slowly, keeping one hand on the younger boys shoulder, while the other held the underside of his jaw delicately. Paul glanced from Johns eyes to his lips, the tiniest of smirks adorning his face, and then they were kissing. It was so gentle Paul almost let out another sob, so affected by the sheer love he felt for this boy who cared for him so much. They kissed, and they kissed, and they kissed. John took Paul’s lower lip into his mouth and sucked on it tenderly, making the other boy giggle. He pulled away then, resting his hands on the shorter boys hips. Paul’s hands came up to Johns sweater again, grabbing on comfortably. 

“You let your hair grow,” John commented after a few minutes of affable silence. He brought one hand up to twirl in the soft brown curls at the nape of Paul’s neck. The younger lad nodded, smiling. 

“You got taller.” Now it was John’s turn to nod, before picking Paul up and twirling him around, making the younger boy laugh loudly and buoyantly, a sound that, to John, was better than any tune he could strum on a guitar. 

“All the more better to pick you up like this, my dear,” he sang, setting Paul down gently on the floor once more. The room fell silent again, and Paul coughed into his hand, shifting his weight from foot to foot, suddenly anxious. 

“I missed you, ye know.” John smiled, catching Paul’s eyes in a fleeting glance. 

The younger boy gave a sheepish grin back, reaching out tentatively to grab one of Johns hands, lacing their fingers together. He looked into the muddied water of Johns eyes once more, trying to find all of the different feelings and emotions contained in those two orbs, so he could package them away and save them for later, when John wouldn’t be _here_ anymore. And then, he realised, they had all the time in the world, so long as they kept their hearts open and their faces turned towards the light. No one could take away what they had, because no one could ever begin to understand it. No one else could ever really understand the emotion that was _John Lennon_ to _Paul McCartney_. And, more likely than not, no one ever would. 

“So have I, Johnny. More than you’ll ever know.”


End file.
